Silencing Cold

by clysm  |  written in 2000


It is wintertime in Tallinn, Estonia. When I leave my apartment on the top floor of a sixteen story grey cement apartment building, I find that the elevator is not functional. So I take the stairs. The scent of the rusted iron garbage chutes on each level rises and falls in potency as I echo down the deserted stairwell. At the ground floor, I step over a sleeping man sprawled across the cement floor and exit the building. The thick but flimsy wooden door crashes shut behind me as I leave the hulking structure which looks exactly similar to all the others around it, and I make my way to the bus stop. Although it is yet early afternoon, everything is dim in winter's omnipresent shadow.

The frigid air gnaws at me regardless of my heavy clothing. Sometimes it just doesn't matter how much you wear. Though the patiently drifting barrage of snow I see the sheltered waiting area some way off across the road among the silent trees. A mass of unmoving bundled figures congests the enclosure and my gaze shifts to follow the sound of the approaching bus. An old woman ahead of me shares my unfortunate timing, and we both break into a cautious run on the slick ground. I reach the open doors after her just as they hiss shut, leaving me on the street.

Now alone at the stop, I walk with my hands in my pockets toward the nearby kiosk. These small shops occupy key roadside spots throughout the city and are typically not large enough for the single attendant to walk more than a few steps. The variety of items sold through the small window is astounding: Newspapers and magazines (some Russian and some American in addition to the local titles), batteries, bus tickets, "extra strong" beer (there is not much demand for the normal kind), poor quality toys which vaguely resemble the American products they imitate, many kinds of ice cream (the only thing socially acceptable to eat in public), pirated videotapes and CDs, all types of candy--including the popular bubble gum with stickers depicting various cartoons or music personalities or pornographic images which can be seen plastered on trolleys and buses–the pornography usually mutilated by the keys or coins of conscientious mothers.

The ground around my feet is fairly clean aside from a few cigarettes and several of the easily identifiable caps from a certain perfume which few people, if any, wear--It is purchased mostly by old women who resort to it in lieu of beer, which is too expensive for them.

Eventually the next bus comes and I wedge my way inside. It is not impolite to push; that is simply the way it is done, and I would be otherwise left behind. Though it is packed to the walls, no one on the bus is speaking. I look through the window as we approach the center of the city. A shroud of snow has gradually covered the land, seeking to seal away all imperfection and consume all sound. The weather slows the world as it numbs its inhabitants, their attention channeled inward with the steady onslaught of cold.

In the evening I am heading north on a crowded trolley toward the home of a friend. I can hear the trolley's two long arms above running along their wires. As usual, I am positioned near the folding doors. I gradually become aware of a hissing sound emanating from the center of the vehicle. When I casually turn to look, I see sparks coming from the ceiling. Then the trolley lurches to a stop and I help to push the doors open. Everyone quickly files out as the smoke increases and the sparks rebound off the walls. Turning back to look though the open doors issuing forth passengers I see the ceiling bowing into a single orange white drip which splashes to the floor. Fire from the roof is spraying high into the night sky amid the smoke. I realize that no one screamed during the incident, and few even spoke.

Walking home, I kick a large misshapen block of packed snow from my path and a shudder passes through my tensely clenched limbs. Despite the relentless assault of the cold, nature's most insensitive season remains my favorite.



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